Blue Collar
by Meepinstein
Summary: Banishment was supposed to be worse than death, and for several long months he thought it was true. But now he couldn't bring himself to wish for death, as banishment had finally brought to him companionship. Contains OC, humans, and similar subject matter.
1. Prologue

I'm not entirely sure why I wrote this, let's call it a spur of the moment thing that ended up longer than I expected and honestly it probably rambles a lot. But so do I. If you decide to read this, I like feedback. I kind of doubt my commitment to this piece, but I have a general storyline I'd like to follow with it. At this point in time this is all I have written, so updates may be slow. Anyway, kindly proceed.

**I own nothing you recognize.**

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A bright pink house in the middle of the woods. A sort of blinding pink that hurt to look at, a pink that nearly glowed in the dark. He almost turned back for the canary yellow house next door, except the lights were off in this one and there was no barking dog aware of his presence.

Unlocked. He counted his lucky stars and looked forward to the possibility of quelling the rumbling of his stomach. The door opened with a squealing of its weathered hinges and he melted away into invisibility. If the occupant was home, maybe they'd think the wind caught the door. He stood off to one side of the door frame, listening, waiting to see if anyone would appear to return the door to its proper closed position. When no one did, he shut it himself and uncloaked his form.

It was dark, and coupled with his severe nearsightedness he found it difficult to see anything. For several moments he just stood, squinting, as he tried to identify the layout of his immediate surroundings. To his left was the kitchen – fridges had lights, didn't they? If there was nothing he wanted there – although anything was appetizing at this point – he could use the light to look through the cabinets and to try to see around. He briefly fumbled with the handle before succeeding in opening it, and found the little light bulb almost blinding after having been in the dark for so long. The fridge didn't have very much. Half a gallon of milk, some fruit, what looked like a plastic container of leftover spaghetti.

_Or maybe it's really guts!_ the paranoid part of his mind spoke up. He didn't know anything about humans besides what he learned in school and from work, but that was children. From what he could see, whoever lived here didn't have children. He shook the thought from his mind, plucked an apple from the little fruit bowl, and shut the door.

The first bite was glorious, cold, and juicy. The sweetness was a welcomed change from his scavenging, the chilled flesh nearly hurt his teeth from the temperature but it was for the sake of finally making his stomach shut up. Before he knew it, he was entirely too wrapped up in the experience.

A growing roar shook him from his reverie. No, not a roar, the rumbling of an engine. A strong, sturdy one; it came closer to the house, a pair of headlights passed through the ratty curtains on the front window, and all at once the engine died and lights winked out. It was dead silent now. He froze as his blood ran cold.

What had happened the last time he'd encountered humans? He'd gotten beaten with a shovel. Although that family had seemed entirely less civilized than the resident of this pink house, he had no idea what to expect. As he remained rooted to the ground, still clutching his apple in a state of panic, his eyes adjusted still more and picked out a firearm mounted on the wall. Well, shit.

The rickety door swung open and hit the wall with a bang, swinging back and closed just after the house's owner stepped in. The lights flicked on, revealing what he would assume was a female. She shrugged off a plaid shirt, showing a thin cotton undershirt that clung even more than it would have normally on account of the fact that her skin was sweaty. On the bottom she'd donned some slim fitting blue jeans and what he understood to be tan work boots. Her face, arms, and clothes were all smudged with black. She reached one dirty hand up to rake through her short-cropped hair before fitting her hat back on her head.

_Move, dammit, before she sees you!_ he screamed at himself, trying to get his legs to cooperate. Except she was still standing in front of the door, meaning that unless there was a back entrance, he was trapped. He got his mind working enough to make himself disappear, but just as he did, her gaze flicked in his direction. She squinted. _The apple!_

In a few strides of her long legs she was in front of him, staring hard at the apple. Then she looked up and, although it was impossible for her to know, they made eye contact. Her mismatched eyes bored into his. As he was focused on her dirty tanned face, she smacked the apple out of his hand. She stared at him for a few moments more before shaking her head and slumping down in a chair at the kitchen table, unfortunately still facing his general direction.

"I am too fucking tired for this shit," she murmured to herself in a voice thick with what he knew was a backwoods southern accent. There was something similar in his world, and he tended not to think too highly of those who spoke with it. She rested her chin on her fist and exhaled loudly.

_Now! Get out while she thinks she's hallucinating!_ He tried to take a step forward, only to have his toes connect with the apple that had been introduced to the ground. The rolling of it caught her attention and her face passed through several expressions, all of which pointed to the possibility of the beginning of a mental breakdown. She stood abruptly, strode into the living room and straight up onto the couch, where she removed the firearm on the wall he'd managed to pick out earlier.

He was entirely too aware of the pattering sound of his feet as he rushed into the room after her, making what was probably the stupidest idea ever to reveal himself. Intent on restraining her, he reached out, but at the first sensation of contact she swung the butt of the shotgun toward him. He thrusted her out at arm's length and the thing narrowly whizzed past his face.

Now facing him and seeing him for the first time, her eyes roamed all over him, taking him in and trying to comprehend what he was and what the hell was going on. "Look." He had the brilliant idea of trying to explain himself. What he was going to explain to her he had no idea; after all, he'd just invited himself into her house and started eating her food.

"Are you fucking sentient?" she more or less ask-yelled, trying to push herself back against the wall only to be caught up in the squishiness of the couch cushions and fall on her behind. Since he was still gripping her arms to keep her restrained, he fell along with her and winded up on top of her.

He had to use another arm to grab the shotgun as she made another swing and to yank it from her hands. He made the assumption that it wasn't loaded given that she hadn't tried to shoot him, and tossed it quickly onto the ground as far away as possible.

"Look," he tried again, ignoring the fact that she was repeatedly shoving her hands against his chest in an attempt to get him off. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Why should I believe you?" she hissed, succeeding in making him wince with her next shove. There was a lot of strength in her thin form.

"How is it going to benefit me if you show up dead? They'll come looking for me, which means I die." He spat out the last two words, getting increasingly close to her face in an attempt to get through her panic. Her eyes widened. He could nearly hear the gears in her mind working and after a few moments she finally nodded.

She made a move to sit up, except he was still pinning her down. He allowed her to, but still didn't trust her enough to let her go. They stared at each other in mutual distrust. Then, his stomach interrupted the silence. The sound made her jump in surprise and he rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Do...do you want some food?" she asked slowly, her eyes coming across the fallen apple. He stared at her hard for a long time.

"I would appreciate it," he replied just as slow. She nodded and stood despite the fact that he was still holding her arms. He spun her around and followed her to the kitchen, still careful to restrain her.

"Throw that away," she instructed as she pointed at the apple, knowing that it was easier for him to pick it up with his second set of arms than for her to bend down awkwardly. He complied as she opened the fridge and stared at it blankly. "What do you like to eat?" she asked, looking at him over her shoulder and trying to attach a general species to his appearance.

His stomach growled again at the idea of eating. "Anything," he replied with a touch of desperation. She examined the container of spaghetti after he answered, frowned, and tossed it back into the fridge.

"I wish to move to the cabinet," she expressed. They did so together, and she grabbed a box of crackers from it and instructed him to eat them while she cooked.

"Can I trust you not to go running?" he asked, eliciting a shudder from the fact that he was breathing down her neck.

"Yes, just stop doing that," she hissed, flinching away. He released her one arm at a time, but remained looming over her. He accepted the box and watched her go about the task of making a fresh batch of pasta, looking for any signs that indicated she might bolt for the door. After she set the timer, she turned around and hopped up on the counter. Whatever, it was her house, she could sit where she wanted.

"So can I get an explanation?" she asked in her deep southern drawl, reaching around on the counter for a pack of cigarettes and subsequently lighting one.

"How am I supposed to explain?" he returned, trying to sound menacing through a mouth full of starch in order to get her to drop the subject.

"Try." She took a drag. "Start with your name, and then we'll work on why in blue hell you're in my house in the middle of the night." Her mismatched eyes narrowed at him in disdain.

"My name is Randall Boggs." She gave one of those snort-like laughs. "What?"

"It doesn't suit you," she chuckled, shaking her head.

"Yeah? And what's your name?" he snarled, eliciting a brief expression of surprise from the human.

"Emerson. Emerson Diebold."

"Isn't that a boy's name?"

"Yeah, but what are you going to do about it?" Emerson ashed into a little glass tray next to her. "Now, Randy, what are you doing here? Ain't never seen the likes of you."

"Let's just say I'm not from around here." He wasn't particularly enthusiastic about indulging her in the subject.

"Suspicious."

"It's kind of a long story."

"Hell if I'm going anywhere. There's nothing I haven't heard, you trust me."


	2. Chapter 1

I figure it's close enough to Sunday to post this next installment. I rather like reviews, you know.

**I own nothing you** **recognize.**

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The long story turned out to be a not so long, abbreviated version. He'd been banished for trying to revolutionize technology and perhaps kidnapping a child. It was maybe a few sentences top, but all the while Emerson started at him wide-eyed. She sat there chewing her bottom lip for a few moments after he finished before she slowly started to nod.

"What?" he asked irritably, finding her silence a little unnerving.

"Nothing," she replied, poking at the boiling pasta with a wooden spoon. "I'm digesting. But it confirms my idea that if I wasn't harboring you and allowing you to stay in my house, you'd be a dick to me."

"Thanks."

"Hey, boy, you gotta take responsibility for your actions. Banishment seems a little harsh though, they coulda popped you in jail a while." She drained the pasta and set it in a bowl in front of him, along with a jar of sauce.

"It wasn't like that," he scowled, even though Emerson seemed content to leave it as it was.

"Hell, nothing's black and white, you hear me. Besides, the more you talk about yourself, the more I'm going to have to tell you about me. Even, you know?"

She hadn't struck Randall as someone who had skeletons in their closet, but he supposed there was a reason she was living so isolated in the woods, save for her neighbor. But he was the stranger in her house, not the other way around, meaning she had more right to know about him.

"I'm going to shower," she informed him, knowing that he still expected her to take a stroll to the police. She turned down the hall, returned to drop a blanket on the couch, and disappeared again. He only relaxed when he heard the water running.

The night passed, and for the first time in a long time he slept on a soft surface in warmth. But his slumber was not peaceful. The comfort made him dream, something he had rarely done since first being trapped in the human world. A night terror of being tossed through the door and then -

_Crash!_

He woke with a jolt, looking around wildly to find that it was already morning. Not a few seconds after being startled into consciousness, Emerson rounded the corner, snatched the shotgun from where it still lay the night before, and barged out the front door. Her yelling reached his ears.

"Get off my property. Get off my got-dang property, you piece of shit! Can't you see there's a house here? Didn't your momma ever learn you to not go shooting people's houses? No, you shut up! No trespassing, can't you read? Now get the hell off before I get my truck!"

She came back inside, sighed heavily, and abruptly came over and started patting him down. He flinched away, not sure of what was going on. "Are you hurt?" Emerson asked, actually grabbing his face and looking him in the eyes.

"I'm fine, just, what are you doing?" Randall pushed her hands off him and narrowed his eyes, annoyed at having missed some kind of memo.

"A dumbass shot out my window." She jabbed her thumb behind her and he glimpsed glass glittering on the kitchen floor. "I'm concerned because of that." She nodded with her head to the wall about the couch. He followed her gaze and noticed a bullet lodged there.

"Why would they shoot out your window?" Randall watched her kneel on the couch and begin to dig the thing out with the tip of a utility knife she seemed to have produced out of nowhere.

"It wasn't on purpose, at least, I hope not," Emerson replied, the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she put effort into the extraction. "They were hunting."

"Is that why your house is so pink?" He'd been wondering why she would paint it such an obnoxious color.

"Yes, and why my neighbor's house is yellow." She finally popped the thing out into her hand and brandished it in front of his face. "Be lucky you didn't sit up at that moment."

"Yeah...whatever." He felt her gaze fix on him intently, noticing his indifference to his safety. Then suddenly, she slapped him.

"Boy, just cuz you ain't got nothing left don't mean you should go wishing death on yourself, you trust me."

Randall looked at Emerson long and hard. There was definitely a reason she was living alone in the woods. He then nodded in confirmation, all the while rubbing his struck cheek. "You're strong for a little thing," he commented, trying to change the subject.

"Me? Talk about yourself. I've got thirteen brothers, raised the younger ones myself, almost always came to blows with the older ones. Didn't treat me no different cuz I was a girl, they beat me up just the same. Except Dalton. Dalton's my favorite brother."

"Thirteen brothers?" he repeated incredulously, hoping he heard wrong from her accent.

"Yep, could name 'em all if you want. I'm the fifth Diebold kid. We all have the same middle name."

"And that is?"

"Lee."

"Emerson Lee Diebold. Now I know what to call you when I'm mad at you."

"You get mad at me, I'm throwing you in the snapper pond," she threatened, jabbing her finger at him in spite of the light-hearted smile on her tanned face. "Or I'll cut me a switch off one of them trees and whoop you with it."

"I've already been whooped enough while I've been around." She frowned for a moment, cataloged a scar across his face, and seemed worried she'd offended him. "Stop making that face."

She shrugged. "Well, look at it this way, Randy, 'least you didn't get introduced to Goodyear."

Oh, jeez, this southern vernacular. "What?" he asked, slightly confused and vaguely remembering why he never bothered conversing with backwoods folks.

"Run over," she clarified with a grin. "I guess I should clean up this mess." Emerson gazed at her shattered window sadly before standing and tossing the offending bullet into the wastebasket.

"I'll help," he offered, standing from his spot on the couch. She was giving him shelter, so he figured he'd have to start doing something in return before she started viewing him as a freeloader.

"Naw, you're my guest. You sit yourself back down there," she protested, sweeping up the glass with a broom.

"You're not wearing shoes," Randall pointed out.

"Neither are you, what's your point? I ain't gonna hurt myself." But not a few seconds later she pulled a face.

"What?"

"...I hurt myself." He'd begun to make his way over to her, but she held up her hands and made shooing motions. "No, no, it's fine, it's not my driving foot so it's no harm done."

"So you drive an automatic then?" he asked, raising a brow. She deadpanned. "Exactly." He took her hand and led her over to one of the kitchen chairs.

"The first aid kit is in the bathroom, in the cabinet. First door on the left. And I guess for the record, if bathing is something you do, and also assuming that you pee, you now know where it is." He chuckled momentarily and fetched the thing.

"So, you have all this technology in your world, but there's still stick shift?" she asked as he picked up her injured foot with a lower arm and prepared to pull the glass out with his upper set, intending to make the job go twice as fast.

"Yeah. This is going to hurt," he warned while wondering if she ought to go to a doctor since it was pretty much minor surgery.

"Thirteen brothers, Randall," she reminded, and as she turned to rest her chin on her fist, he caught a few scars along her face and collarbone, shining pink against her sun-dark skin. She didn't move an inch as he removed the shards, but winced slightly at the introduction of isopropyl alcohol. "I'll have to call Jake, see if her can get me a new window," she murmured to herself, still surveying the damage. "I paint my house fucking fluorescent pink, for Pete's sake..."

He bandaged her foot quickly and stood to clean the rest of the glass himself. Needless to say, this didn't sit well with Emerson's southern hospitality.

"Sit," she demanded, gesturing to another chair.

"You sit," he countered, pushing her back down into her seat.

"No, really, I insist."

"No, _I_ insist." Despite the argument she'd stood, placed her weight on her injured foot, and winded up toppling over onto him as she misjudged how much pain the action would cause her. "You stupid-" he'd started to scold, before clamping a hand over his mouth and scowling at her.

"I knew you were secretly a dick," she commented, sounding amused as she lay with her head on his chest.

"Whatever, just get off me," he growled, and would have shoved her is she hadn't been the person gracious enough to open her home to him. She carefully got to her feet and sat back down in her chair.

"Also in the cabinet is a bottle of Percocet. I want it."

He knew that name, and he knew what it was, although it wasn't a popular choice due to the fact that there were better things in his world. "Didn't you say something about a driving foot? What exactly is it that you do for a living, Emerson Lee?"

Her mismatched eyes became shifty. "Don't worry about it."

"Hmm?" She turned and coughed something into her hand. "I didn't catch that."

"I tow cars," she finally admitted. "Some mechanic work." It explained her deep tan, lean muscles, and sloppy attire, and it was certainly not something to be doing while on narcotics.

"And you want me to give you Percocet? What else do you have?"

"Some ibuprofen."

"You're taking that." Randall was gone and back in a flash, except that it was long enough for Emerson to start hobbling around proclaiming something about getting endorphins flowing. He managed to convince her that her endorphins could wait until he had finished cleaning and had the opportunity to offer support so she wouldn't introduce her face to the floor. Surprisingly, she complied.

"You're pretty alright, Randall," she declared after taking the pills with a sip of the tap water he'd gotten her. "I'll look past the fact that you're actually an asshole."

"Why?" he nearly sneered as he deposited the glass into the wastebasket and leaned the broom back against the wall.

"Cuz you actually know how to be nice, which means you're either really good at putting up a front, or you weren't always an asshole."

Way to hit the nail on the head. He wanted to slap her or yell at her for speaking in a way that struck him as out of line. Something in her expression seemed cocky and smug from having figured it out, but after a few moments her face fell and she broke their staring contest.

"Forgive me, I shouldn't pry. Folks's got things they don't tell and I shan't be sticking my nose in your business. I'll tell you something in return, if you like."

He shook his head. "Not now. When do you leave for work?"

"Whenever I get a call. But I have to call my carpenter buddy about the window, see if he can install it, too. If not I'mma call my neighbor; either way you ought to make yourself scarce."

"Not a problem." He helped her make a few rounds in the kitchen until she got used to the pain, then watched her receive and place a phone call.

"Now, I'm going to be off. I'd tell you to call me if you need anything, but I don't have a house phone. You seem to be an adult, so don't go making a mess of things. You can eat what you find, and when I get back, probably late, we'll go grocery shopping."

"We?"

"Yes, we."


	3. Chapter 2

I apologize for my lateness. I am ill. Also, this chapter isn't as long as the ones previous. Enjoy it anyway.

**I own nothing you recognize.**

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At first Randall spent the day watching one of the five channels Emerson got on her ancient television. The local news proved none too interesting, but provided him with the information that he was in Lebanon, Kentucky. It was supposed to be 81 degrees today, and still be balmy into the night. There has been a hold up at a small mom and pop store, whatever that was, earlier in the week. Strange tracks had been found in the woods. On next was something called Judge Judy, which he spent a few moments taking in before deciding that humans were utterly nuts. He shut off the television and debated in sleeping for a short while, but he didn't want to be discovered when the man due to install the new window showed up.

He opted to drag himself and the blanket into Emerson's bedroom, figuring that they wouldn't go snooping around in there. On his way down the hall he noticed a series of photographs framed on the wall. The first was four boys, Emerson, and what he assumed were her parents. Her father was a large, intimidating man, someone who had probably been in the military, with dark hair and the same characteristic eyes that Emerson possessed – left one blue, right one brown. All the children in the picture seemed to have some variation of heterochromia.

The next picture was of what he assumed was the while family as there were even more boys. Her expression in this one was different though. A faked smile, eyes like a dead fish. The parents had the same look. Raising so many of her brothers must have been taxing, and he was certain he was looking at the portrait of a family that was hanging onto each other by threads.

The final picture in the hall was of a young Emerson standing opposite a dark haired boy who was offering a daisy. Was this Dalton then? Or had there been a time in Emerson's life when she'd had free time to make friends outside the family? Even in her childhood she was tanned and had wiry strength in her thin form. She must have been a hardy child. He wondered what she had been afraid of and who her monster had been.

_How old is she?_ he wondered, reaching out to touch the photograph and flicking his gaze back to the faux happy family picture. But something about the third photo made his mind tickle, except, why would it? He couldn't have been her monster; this Emerson seemed like the kind to go traipsing through the mud, picking up all manners of bugs and frogs and scaly things. Besides, he doubted that he had been through college at the time she was a child. He shrugged it off and continued onward to the bedroom.

Had he spent any longer clutching at straws about the picture, he would have been discovered. The front door came open and he heard heavy footsteps falling in the linoleum kitchen. He sat on her bed, clutching at the blanket as a bubble of panic formed in his chest. Whoever was installing that window – at least, he hoped it was the man due to come and not a burglar – must be a beast of a human.

Randall found himself repeatedly burying his nose into the oil smudge of the blanket and trying to convince himself that Emerson wouldn't sell him out. The metallic, dirty smell to the fabric filled his olfactories and brought him some comfort, almost grounding him to reality. She'd given him this blanket, given him food, given him a place to sleep on the couch. Not beaten him with a shovel.

But wasn't she going to get tired of looking after him the same way she had with her younger brothers? No, he was being ridiculous. The sound of the front door swinging shut halted his frenzied thoughts. He sat holding his breath, listening for the pounding footsteps that had been there previously. A minute ticked past, and then another, before he finally relaxed.

Randall scuttled into the kitchen to make sure the window had been fixed and that he hadn't just let a robbery proceed. To his relief there was fresh glass in the panes. How long had he been thinking for? Window installations were no breeze, not to mention the fact that Emerson's window had no hint of modernity to it.

Whatever. He shook his head, made sure the curtains were drawn over the front window, and curled back up on the couch under the blanket in spite of the heat.

_Because it smells like Emerson!_ Oh shut up, he told his thoughts, but still kicked the blanket onto the floor in a huff. He didn't really naturally blend in with the ratty upholstery without the blanket, but no one else was supposed to come. Supposed to.

The Southern heat had succeeded in making him drowsy and he soon felt himself falling asleep. He dreamt of the door again. This time when he was tossed mercilessly through it he landed in Emerson's entryway in a crumpled heap. He looked up and around to find her sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, mismatched eyes boring into his, some sort of smug smirk on her face. He followed her hand down as it grabbed a shotgun, _that_ shotgun, and trailed his gaze back up to her face. She cocked it, stood, aimed it at him. Click, click, click. The thing wasn't firing, but her grin was unwavering. She turned, pulled the trigger, and bang! There went the kitchen window. She approached him now, leaned down, and opened her mouth to say something.

"No trans fats!" Randall jerked awake to find that he had his head Emerson's lap. She'd chosen to wake him by reading the nutrition facts on a snack package of cookies. "Not a significant source of...well, everything! Damn, what if I wanted to live off these?"

"I'm awake," he groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. The setting sun cast an orange glow to the room. He had probably successfully messed up his sleeping schedule. "I thought you said you'd be back late."

"It's Sunday. People aren't usually stupid on Sunday," she replied through a mouthful of raspberry shortbread. He was pretty sure people were stupid all the time. "Are you ready to go?"

"Go where?" he asked, his mind still foggy with sleep.

"Grocery store, remember?" She offered him a cookie, and at the growling glee of his stomach he accepted it. "Obviously I live by myself, and now that you're here, I need to buy more food. I needed more food in the first place, but now I need more more food."

"Alright, I get it." He chuckled faintly at her antics, earning a grin back. Had it been anyone else, he probably would have been annoyed. She finished her cookies, hitched up her pants, and beckoned for him to follow her outside.


	4. Chapter 3

I seem to be slightly behind. Enjoy this installment.

**I own nothing you recognize.**

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The moment Randall stepped out of the house he regretted it. Not because of a bystander, but because the hot air was thick like soup. The humidity weighed down his every step. The walk to Emerson's truck, although only a few feet, seemed entirely too long.

Her trusty tow was a rusting powder blue Chevrolet, whatever that was. If he had to guess he'd say it was an old model, probably even considered ancient, with a rounded shape and wheel wells that reminded him of bubbles. In peeling black letters "Diebold's Towing" had been pasted across the door, her phone number down the arm of the rig. When she opened the door and gestured for him to get in, he discovered it had a bench seat upholstered in baby blue vinyl. He was surprised to find the interior nearly spotless compared to the outside.

"So how exactly is this going to work?" he asked, rolling his gaze toward her as she climbed in behind the wheel.

"It works, just let me get the key in and show you," she answered, assuming he doubted the old vehicle.

"Not that," he almost snapped. The heat and humidity were making him kind of grumpy. "This shopping trip."

"Ah! Well, you can disappear and I have one of these." She reached onto the dash and held up a headset, obviously so she could take hands-free calls. Emerson looked rather proud of herself for coming up with the idea. "Now you start thinking about what you might want to eat. It's kind of a drive. We're going into civilization."

He turned into invisibility so that he could watch the road trip. The driveway itself was long. It was a gravel path cutting through the handful of acres in front of her house, which were littered with a series of rusting scrap cars in various states of disassembly. The unevenness of it made the truck rock, the rigging clanking together, the tow hook swinging precariously from side to side. The trees nearly touched the vehicle when they reached the driveway apron, causing eerie scratching sounds against the decomposing metal. Emerson pulled out with hardly a glance in either direction.

The road was hardly traveled on and covered with potholes. It wound through the woods and spat them out on a stretch of nothingness. They drove through the tiny town she lived on the edge of in hardly any time and were back on the dusty country roads speckled with the occasional building or two. Eventually the truck boarded a ramp onto the highway. He'd be lying if he said the concept of taking the old rusty thing to a high speed didn't scare him.

As if picking up on his anxiety, Emerson reassured him, "Don't worry. If I didn't trust it I wouldn't be driving it. I know you think I sound like it, but I'm not stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid," Randall replied quickly, raising his voice as the rigging shook and rattled.

"Please, soon as words come out of my mouth people think I'm stupid." She made a "pshaw" gesture to indicate it didn't bother her much. "In fact, I seem to recall you starting to call me a stupid something or other."

"I was annoyed by your stubbornness. I mean, who cuts their foot and tries to walk on it five seconds later?" He squinted and pursed his lips as the concept confused him.

"People who spent most their life running after youngins. Don't you remember your momma putting you first?"

"Yeah, yeah." He waved her off even though she couldn't see it, and he was probably thankful for it.

"They turned out okay, although cuz they were my brothers I might have smacked them around a little too much. I'm not the only one in my family who's stubborn, Randy."

"So I have to hit you with a newspaper to smack some sense into you?"

"Oh hell boy, your momma ever give you the wooden spoon?"

"A few times," he replied, amused that this was what they had in common.

"Did she have a spoon in each hand?" She seemed slightly horrified at the thought of facing four spoons at once.

"It was efficient to have four spoons when cooking. I was a good kid though. I didn't see it too much."

"Good kid, huh? Didn't stray down the bad path til later?"

"Not until college."

"College. I've heard that's where shit goes on. Never went, scraped through high school cuz I never had time to myself. Graduated with nothing special."

"I had honors."

"This ain't a pissing contest, boy."

"I know, I'm making conversation. You seem to like to snoop around, so I'm saving you the trouble."

"Snoop?" she repeated incredulously. "Think, if you had some stranger living with you, you'd want to make sure they weren't a con or a rapist or someone with a habit of bludgeoning people in their sleep."

"Yeah, okay." He was half poking fun, half seeing the validity of her statement. When he finally looked out the windshield again, he saw that she was pulling her truck into a spot in the back forty of the lot. Upon getting out, he discovered it was because she had to take up part of another spot to keep her back end out of the aisle. Randall felt a rush of anxiety standing next to her.

"Least it hasn't rained, else you'd be tracking through the drink," she commented, donning the headset.

He wrung his hands. There didn't seem to be too many people here judging by the amount of cars, but still, there were people here in the first place. Based on the south in his world and the episode with the trailer, the residents of this town would likely shoot first and ask questions later. Just stay invisible and everything will be fine, he told himself.

Emerson beckoned for him to follow, and together they walked through the parking lot to the entrance. The store was big and brightly lit, and smelled like cleaning solvents. It was a contrast from the supermarkets in his world, which always had the cloying scent of rot. He grabbed at the tail of Emerson's shirt as she leaned over a shopping cart.

"What do you want to eat?" she asked gruffly, glancing around for ideas. "I want cereal, and milk for my cereal, and apples, and let's make soup even though it's hot."

Emerson was hardly one to be picky, leaving him to decide what they ought to buy in order to stay within budget. He discovered that her favorite food was fried potatoes and that she despised oranges because as someone who worked with their hands the fruits caused more pain than they were worth. She was someone who liked foods with everything – pizza with lots of toppings, salads involving four food groups. The soup they'd make tomorrow evening was due to have several ingredients and she seemed intent not to leave anything out.

"Hey, ain't it Ms. Diebold," a voice spoke up from behind them as Emerson glanced over the produce section to see if she'd forgotten anything. She grunted in greeting and attempted to flee for the aisle containing bread and jams. "Hey, I got to talk to you, we ain't talked in a while..."

Randall dared to look up at the man who sounded even more backwoods than Emerson. He seemed pleased to see her, smiling with a mouth that contained all of three teeth. He was wearing a plaid shirt and overalls cut off at the knees. There was a hat decorated with what he recognized as fishing lures on his head.

"I wonder why," Emerson murmured to herself, leaning over the shopping cart in preparation to sit through whatever rambling may spill from his mouth. "How you been, Randy?"

Randall jumped a little and squinted at the hick bearing his name. He suddenly felt dirty. Emerson reached around to where he was still clutching her shirt tail and patted him sympathetically.

"Oh, I been quite fine, Ms. Diebold. But I got a question to ask yeh. You 'member a while back, down in the swamplands, those dern Hatfields opened the closet and there was the funny looking gator?"

"They done drank the first draft of moonshine, Randy, everybody knows that gives you problems," Emerson replied, trying to distance herself from the man and continuing her path toward the bread.

"Nah, listen, Ms. Diebold," he protested, following the two of them and stopping when Emerson stared hard at the top shelf to try to push his voice out. "Few nights ago, I done opened my closet, 'cept it wasn't my closet!"

"Uh-huh...reach me that, will you, Randy?"

Randall, used to the request already, grabbed the loaf she was pointing at and dropped it in the cart in a flash. To his horror, the hick also tossed one in, albeit less gently than he had. Emerson didn't seem to notice.

"That ain't the strange part, Ms. Diebold," he carried on, also unaware of the fact that there was twice as much bread as needed.

"Yeah? Randy, that." She jabbed her finger at the other side of the aisle and once again the item was doubled. Randall bit his fingernail. Both were oblivious.

"When I opened it, there was some kind of thing inside! Some kind of furry monster thing!"

"Monster thing, huh?" Emerson repeated, sounding uninterested as she continued pointing to things she was too lazy to get herself. Randall wondered if he ought to return the extras, but he doubted being able to relocate the constantly moving cart. Besides, floating grocery items might pose a problem. "I don't know what to make of that, Randy."

"Hell, I don't either, Ms. Diebold. But I figure, you been all over Marion County in your wrecker, you hear anything like it?"

"Nope."

"You ever hear what happened to the funny looking gator?"

"Nope, why, have you?"

"Naw, I just figure you might've."

"Well, I haven't. Is that all?"

"Yeah, I reckon so. Thanks for your time, Ms. Diebold."

"No problem, Randy." As the man walked away, Randall glimpsed Emerson poke her tongue out at him. "Jeez. So, how you been, Randy?" she joked over her shoulder.

"F-Fine," he replied without hesitating.

After proceeding though the checkout, Randall found himself once again wringing his hands in the parking lot. "Emerson," he began as she loaded the groceries into the bench seat with no where else to put them. "Does that man have kids?"

"Kids? Him? It's damn horrifying to think he's got himself a wife, what makes you think he's got kids?" She then started muttering to herself that she didn't remember buying so many things.

"I was just wondering," he shrugged.

"Well, Randy, don't go thinking yourself into a spot," she advised, closing the passenger door and walking around to the other side. "Now, we're going to be a little squishy in here."

The thought of being that close to Emerson simultaneously made his skin crawl and his stomach go flip flop. Squishy turned out to be an understatement, as he found himself on her lap. Her warmth was under and behind him, her arm unavoidably brushing his side as she maintained a one-handed grip on the wheel.

"Oh, jesus, I'm sorry," she cursed as she compulsively tried to put her hand on her thigh as she removed it from her gear shift. It ended up on his leg instead. The touch probably would have made his stomach do that ridiculous flip flop thing again if he hadn't been steadily "thinking himself into a spot." He didn't even notice they'd arrived back at the pink house until Emerson cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly, removing himself from her lap and revealing himself in the cover of darkness. "Do you want me to help?"

"Naw, don't you worry."She waved him on after tossing him her ball of keys. He made the assumption that pink key equaled pink house and let himself in, holding the door open until she had brought all the stuff inside.

"I'm going to the restroom," he informed. Although he'd intended to lean over the sink and splash excessive amounts of water over his face in an attempt to clear his head, he found himself standing in front of Emerson's closet door.


End file.
